198 Could Have Beens
by vine
Summary: These are the 198 mutants that could have been. They could have been the ones to keep their birthright. Instead, they lost their powers in a freak accident. For some it was good, for others, it was the worst. But they all have a story. #10: David Alleyne.
1. 1 of 198

**This is the first chapter of many. All characters are OCs- if you'd like to use one in your own stories, just ask. ******

Laura Courin could have been someone else.

She could have been anyone she wanted. A moment of concentration, a twist of the features, and viola! A new appearance.

But what Laura loved most about her power was that it made her all the more able to be herself. It didn't matter that, at age 15, she could fool and bouncer in town. And it didn't matter that her mother had taken one look at her daughter's green, morphing body, and tossed her out on the streets. Because a shapeshifter is who Laura was, and it didn't matter if she chose to look seven or seventy, she never lost sight of who she was inside. Because that's what mattered.

Until the day she had woken up, looked down at her hands, and realized she wasn't herself anymore. Stuck in the body of a girl she didn't know, every reflective surface was laughing at her. Her ids were useless, her mind slightly cracked. She got kicked out of the dingy apartment she had lived in since she left home, because her bank id didn't match her appearance. Her own mother had thrown out the green-skinned version of her, but didn't even bother to acknowlage the stranger's child she was now. And as all the signs shouted that she was _not_ Laura Courin, she slowly began to believe them.

She lives on the streets now, begging for her meals, doing odd jobs when she can. An off-kilter smile rides her lips, and a crazed look in her eyes. She introduces herself as as Nobody, and speaks of a young, green-skinned girl named Laura as if she were telling a fairy tale that she knows isn't true, but can't help but hold on to with all her ebbing strength.

Laura Courin could have been someone else.


	2. 2 of 198

Tandy Leigh could have been clean.

She could have been happy with it, too. When she used her powers, her mind didn't dwell on when and where she'd get her next fix, or who she'd have to steal from, this time.

Because what better high is there than adrenaline rush? And with her super strength, and heightened reflexes to match, adrenaline was hardly tough to come by. The first time she took down a criminal, for example.

The first time was selfish- the guy had just ripped her off, given her half the amount of drugs he had promised, then bolted. She caught up with him easily, taking him down with a kick to the back of the knee. And when she stood over him as he blubbered and whined, she felt something she thought only the drugs could give her. Power.

But she still took his stash.

The second time was a hold-up, in a lonely general store. What had brought her inside was the screams of a young girl over her bleeding, store-clerk father. An old, stained memory, hidden beneath years of the drug's filth, resurfaced slightly. And when the bumbling crook shot her twice in the chest? Heh, it tickled. She'd never forget the look of worth in the girl's eyes. Her worth. She was worth something, even with most of her brain killed by long years of habits and addictions. And because she liked the warmth that spread through her chest at the sight of her good, she kept doing it. Kept saving lives, kept catching crooks. In the middle of the night, kept awake by the shakes and the fever because she had been too busy to nab any drugs, the feeling of worth held the smile on her face.

But then the day of judgment came. She woke up, and looked through weak eyes at a dim, unforgiving world, and realized it was gone. Her worth, her purpose, had been stolen in the night. With her weakened muscles, she could hardly even get out of bed and out the door.

The whole day was spent adjusting to the weakness, to the pain where once there was only numb. She bit her lip to keep from screaming, then tasted salt, as warm blood flowed from where her teeth had cut through. And the drug's calls were back as well. She couldn't hear anything but the drug's whispers. So she snatched an unwatched purse, went and got high.

A few hours later, an anonymous 9-1-1 call led to a young Jane Doe being admitted to hospital because of drug overdose. Because she died the next morning without waking up, police were unable to find out who she was. Runaway, homeless, professional, dealer- they had no way of knowing. Missing Persons wasn't looking for her- it looked like nobody was. Jane Doe #127 was buried without a name or family, in an unmarked hospital plot. But no one was really bothered- cases like these were a dime a dozen. No one of any worth was involved.

But Tandy Leigh could have been clean.


	3. 3 of 198

Rori Tertly could have been a brother.  
A twin, to be exact. The only difference between him and Rumer was that she was a girl. People would stare at the two of them, whisper to themselves about how uncannily alike the two of them were. But they didn't care. They were each other's best- and only- friend. Their hearts beat as one, and so they fancied themselves- one person in two bodies. And when their powers appeared, they could easily have four bodies, or seven, or ten. It didn't matter what they did; so long as they were together, they were content. They had been born together, and they would grow old and die with none but each other. They knew this in their hearts. 

Until the day Rori woke up, and Rumer wasn't there beside him. He panicked, searching for his sister through the special bond that all twins shared, but it was as if she had disappeared into thin air. Their parents had dumped the two of them off at the nearest orphanage when they were two, she was the only thing that mattered to him in the world. It was as if his sun had vanished, and alone and freezing, he had been left to wander. The orphanage director alerted the police, but all evidence pointed to Rumer having run away- though her stuff was untouched, all of her files were missing. The officer assigned to her case even went so far as to say that, according to birth certificates, Rumer Tertly had never existed.  
But Rori knew that wasn't true. He could feel the shadow of her inside of him, knew she was out there somewhere. He tried to create an army of dopplegangers to help his search, but his power hadn't worked since Rumer had gone. They needed each other, they could hardly function apart.

Rori is still looking, though it's been almost a year. His eyes are bloodshot, and he swares he hasn't slept since she left. Occasionally, he thinks he hears her calling, or glimpses her out of the corner of his eye. People say it's all in his head, but he knows she's out there, because the shadow of her within him talks to him in the dead of night, whispering the secrets only his sister could know. He couldn't have just created a sister out of thin air, anyway.

That would be uncanny.


	4. 4 of 198

Faery Akero could have been free.

Free to fly the clear blue skies of ignorance. When all the taunts got under her skin, she would shed it for feathers, fly alone across the desert for hours, pretend that this was how she was supposed to be.

Riding on the thermals, it was easy to hope that one day, sheÕd look shyly at an object of affection, and have them stare back. Somewhere out there had to be someone who didnÕt shy away at her talon-like hands. DidnÕt spit at her as she walked by, yank at the feathers that had replaced her golden hair of her youth.

She knew highschool was supposed to be hell, but without her wings, she would have ended it a long time ago. It seemed strange, how she embraced the very thing that brought her under societyÕs glare. But there weere things under her skin, things that had been there even before she sprouted feathers. Feelings she couldnÕt control, for all the wrong people.

It happened on her birthday. She was turning 14. In reward for living this long, she skipped school to fly into the desert. She slept there, too, miles away from any civilization.

Was it the burning that woke her? Or the horrible screaming, made even worse when she realized the voice was her own? After what felt like hours, her consiousness swam, and she was swamped with blessful oblivion.

It was dark when she woke. Had it been minutes? Days? Faery had no idea. She felt lighter, though. As if a huge weight had fallen off-

Her shoulders. No odd, double-jointed shoulderblades. No rustle of feathers.

No beautiful tawny wings.

She brought a hand to her head. No feathers. No hair. She was bald. Cold, too, in this desert night. With no wings to bring her back home. So she started to walk, though it was hard to see her way, with the tears stinging her normal, brown eyes.

She was close to collapsing, when she heard the laughter. A couple of her classmates roared up to her on dirtbikes, and she fell to her knees. Maybe- finally- her luck was changing.

But she didnÕt like the looks in her peersÕ eyes. Hungry. Angry.

The first movement was a kick to her shoulder, knocking her onto her backside. When the accusations came, they were slurred and spiteful.

ÒStupid mutie fag!Ó ÒWhatÕs you do to Benny?Ó ÒYou destroyed him, you lesbo slut!Ó

The voices spun together, but her parched throat left her with no voice in defence. Instead, she raised an arm to shield herself, only to have a heeled boot come down on it. She cried out, as the bone broke. After one blow to the back of the hed, though, Faery never made a sound.

The teens never told what happened that day, nor did they explain the dark stains on their clothes that refused to wash out.

But Faery Akero could have been free.


	5. 5 of 198

Ora Arnth could have been happy.

It was as simple as that. Merely being around her had your spirits soaring. It wasn't something she could control, or even admit to being a power, but everyone could see the glow that surrounded her. It blazed as bright as her smile, and it was effortless in its beauty.

Ora was the girl who could survive anything. She wasn't naive, just strong in her beliefs. She wasn't invulnerable, just weathered. By the age of twenty four, she had lost friends, family, and more than a few places she had called home. But she had a pair of strong arms around her, arms that had pledged to be hers forever. It was all she ever wanted, and love filled every square inch of her.

Ora worked as a nurse, bringing hope to every patient she smiled at. She wasn't afraid to work in the touchy areas, like with terminal patients and the young children. Because even if their conditions turned her fingers numb, left her mind buzzing, nothing was able to touch her heart, her fortress, built by the smiles she inspired.

Some of the more superstitious, Godly doctors went so far as to request her. Whispers said that miracles followed her footsteps. This never failed to pull a laugh from her. It was just smiling. She didn't offer hope, only happiness. Laughter wasn't 'the best medicine', only something to help keep the blood pumping. She wasn't a miracle, just living in the only way she knew how.

One day, the hospital was busier than usual. She didn't crawl into bed until three hours after her shift had ended. Roger, her anchor, must have been working late at the factory. Their queen-sized bed only succeeded in sending shivers down her spine.

By the time she woke up, bleary-eyed and still cold, Roger was already gone. There was a note on the table, a reminder of love in the form of a still-warm muffin, and blistering hot coffee.

Ora's mouth twisted slightly, but didn't pull up into her usual grin. She was tired, is all. She had the afternoon shift, so that could be remedied. A kid had died on her watch last night, after all. Cancer strangling him as he slept. Nothing she could have done, but still. A blow. Something that still dragged at her spirit, so much fresher than any of her memories of loss, but bringing back older wounds.

Her mother had died in childbirth, along with what would have been the youngest of three siblings. Her baby brother, who had died without even taking one breath, opening one innocent, beautiful eye.

Her father had died of cancer, when she was sixteen. Her younger sister had been taken away from her, and she was shoved to one side, as the people who were supposed to take care of orphans like her instead focused all their efforts on finding a family that would take good care of poor, crippled baby sister.

She had lived where she could, done what she had to, to finish high school, put herself through nurse school after that. She had wanted to be a doctor, but just couldn't afford the extra years in university.

All these memories were supposed to a have faded, so long ago. They didn't bother her anymore, or so she had thought. She had Roger, and a roof above her head that she had helped pay for. No little ones yet, but they had been trying, and it was bound to happen. She was strong. But her attempt to smile fell flat.

Stomach turning, she rushed to the bathroom, and emptied her stomach into the toilet. After rinsing her face with freezing water, she again tried to force a smile onto her pale face. It took, what? Fourteen muscles to smile?

That had never seemed like an effort, until now.

She was getting ready to go to work when she got the call. She was sick, was all. A cold. She would go, talk to a supervisor, explain that she couldn't stop shivering, and go home sick. She had never taken a sick day in her life. She was sure it would be fine.

But the call drove that all from her mind.

There had been an accident at work. Roger was at the hospital now, though they wouldn't tell her his condition. Only that he was alive.

He was awake when she got there, smiling, joking with the buddies that surrounded his bed. When he caught sight of her, his eyes lit, and his face stretched into a look that was all hers.

Usually it would have filled Ora with enough warmth to tickle even her toes. But now, she could hardly pull an answer from her cold lips.

"How bad?" She whispered into his ear, as she was held in his strong embrace.

He told her. And then she did something he hadn't done since she was ten. She cried. Loud, harsh sobs that shook her whole body, until the only heat she felt was the arms that held onto her, kept her from falling to pieces on the hospital floor. Her Anchor, her love...

Never to walk again.

It wasn't until a week later, until after Roger had finally come home, that she realized that she was not, as it turned out, sick. No. She was with child.

Tears once again flowed down her cheeks, and she took refuge in her Anchor's arms.

She doesn't see Roger much anymore, as he works behind a desk, where he was once just a labourer. Working overtime, as much as he could. She has been cold, so cold since she got pregnant, and she tried to hold their child as little as possible. Because the child gets cold, so cold, and her lips freeze, so that she can't force them to turn upward.

Cold is merely an absence of heat. And absence has always played funny games with the heart.

Ora Arnth can be content. But happiness has slipped just out of reach.


	6. 6 of 198

Jesse Halden could have been a superhero. Or at least he'd like to think that.

Morals were not something that had crossed his mind often, even before he had figured out that he was a mutant.

Time had always felt so slow to Jesse. His home life was fighting punctuated by painful silence, and his school life was painful silence punctuated by fighting. He got suspended a lot, but had good enough grades to always be allowed back. The best grades, in fact. Something that came easily to him, unlike all of the idiots who surrounded him, who fawned and fucked and pretended their lives were worth living. Jesse knew they weren't.

His counselors always expressed concern at his monotone speech, his apathetic explanations as to what was troubling him. He made it a game, one to trick and to lie, and see how much would be believed.

One lady called him bipolar. Gave him lithium that he didn't take. Accused her of hitting on him, just to shake things up. He didn't go to see her again.

He had never pegged himself to be a mutant. H had always known he was better than these stupid ground-crawlers, but his powers were enough to cement that fact. Reaching out to grab a dropped pencil, watched as it slowed enough to make catching it easy. His head shot up, and he watched the teacher shout in slow motion, as the kid in front of him snuck a look at the ugly girl across the row's cleavage.

And Jesse smiled.

He didn't have a costume, or anything. Nothing as nerdy as that. He considered a bullet proof est, but bullets were just as slow moving as anything else. What had started it was the girl. She was bleeding in an alley, calling for help in her weak, scratchy voice, as the man above her leered, and searched through her purse, red stained knife left discarded on the ground.

The best part was that moment of hesitation, as Jesse decided whether he would help her or not. He didn't know that he could feel this powerful. The boy then picked that knife up, and watched the girl's eyes go wide. He knew that it looked strange for those outside of his time wraping. As if he were just moving much too quickly for the eye to see.

But the man was caught up in it, and Jesse revelled in the panic he saw there. Then he plunged the knife right through his chest.

Time sped to catch up, and he looked down at the girl who's life he had saved. She was beginning to hyperventilate. He didn't care. What he did care about was that he had felt something when that blade had passed through the man's chest, slipping through his ribs and hitting some vital organ.

"Get up." The girl scrambled up, looking faint and terrified. He reached down, and handed her purse back to her. He also grabbed he knife. This, he would keep. As a souvenir.

"There's a payphone around the corner." He turned, and began to walk away. "Call the police. Tell them what happened. You might want to go to the hospital, as well." Tucking his gloved hands into his pockets, he walked away.

The papers called him a vigilante. The next day, when he made the front page. He even managed a smile, as he tossed the knife up and caught it with the same hand. Is that what he was to them? To the shivering masses? Well, he couldn't say no to fame.

The newspapers were dominated with his name for the next few weeks. Forget the silly superheroes who stayed high above the ground, saving anyone they could, and getting flack when they didn't. They didn't leave a trail of bodies behind them. They were too good. All they got was hate when they slipped up.

But he pushed them off the front page. He picked and chose, consciously decided which victims he cared to save. Young or middle aged. The old had lived their lives. No whores. No dumb jocks. And the public couldn't get enough of him. His fame grew, and his body count grew, and the police began to say how he was a menace. A villan, not a hero. They were as stupid as his classmates, who dithered and swooned over that dark, dangerous guy with the blood on his hands.

M day. The first day. The day that he wakes up to the sound of the news. Reporting the strange phenomenon that had taken the world by storm. Mutants had disappeared, pulling away into their homes and their safe-houses and their corporations. No one knew why. Rumors flew. Divine judgement. The end of the world. A deadly virus.

But Jesse knows why. He tries to make the newscaster slow down, shut up. This is not okay. This is not the truth.

Nothing happens. And he knows. He knows that his days of fame and glory were over. He knows that the collection of blades and weapons and other keepsakes would never get another addition.

He tries to feel something, anything, but can't. The little feelings that had come with deciding who lived and who died, the feelings that came over him when he snuffed out a pointless life, had all disappeared with his powers.

Shrugging his backpack onto his shoulders, he begins the walk to school. He is going to be late again, without his power to get him there. He doesn't care. There is a gun tucked into his math binder, and some spare ammo in a few of the pockets.

There are other ways to be famous.


	7. 7 of 198

((This one I wrote years ago. Not very good, but it made me feel happy, typing it out now. I also thought that maybe it was time to show the other side of the coin))

* * *

Shinko Knami could have been the bad news.

Shinko should have been the good news, but she never really made it that far. Because her power was really no good for that. She tried to be optimistic about the big picture, the rest of the human race. But her power tended to bring out the worst in people. Bad luck was a curse that followed her around, a plague that she passed on, and a dark cloud that weighed at every feature. That, in turn, led her to wait for the little things. And if she focused really hard on the details, the big pictures ceased to exist.

But wherever Shinko was, bad luck wasn't far behind.

When her first house burned down on her twenty-third birthday, with the insurance application sitting on the front counter waiting to be postmarked... Shinko couldn't find one good thing about the whole affair.

She stayed in a motel that night- it was dinky and roach-infested. The ceiling dripped, and the TV just spluttered about disappearances, no matter how many times she tried to shut it off.

She wasn't late to work that morning.

She didn't burn her breakfast, the bus was on time, and no errant pieces of gun found their way onto the bottoms of her shoes. She had a normal, accident-free day at the office, and her mother called. There had been something wrong with the house's electrical wiring. They may even be able to get the money back on that front.

She felt like she was on top of the world.

Whether the bad luck had been a curse, just chance, or as one friend joked, mutation, it seemed to have finally passed on.

Someday, maybe she will feel pity for the people she could have maybe, just maybe been a member of. A people who now number in the hundreds instead of the millions. One last bit of irony, that for her to be content, a species had to disappear. And as the last laugh, she is blissfully unaware.

Or maybe, just maybe, it was just her luck.


	8. 8 of 198

8/198

Adam Frante could have been warm.

Because it's so cold out here, on the streets, by yourself...

Warm and cozy in a fire of his own making, sitting hot as salamanders, watching the world stare as he shifted on the coals.

Fire came easily to him. It lit underneath his fingers, brightened his day. He gave it to others. He saved lives. He was a hero of the freezing.

He didn't like fall. He was never sure when it was cold enough to light a fire.

One fall day, it rained. Adam hid under an abandoned store's overhang, and waited for heat to fill his veins and spill out.

But there was nothing. He shivered, for the first time fearing the bite of frost.

Adam Frante hates winter. His fingers become immovable inside threadbare mittens, and sometimes he swears that his shivering here was causing earthquakes in China, or some other far-off land.

He doesn't think he'll make it to liking spring again. His legs went numb hours ago, and he suddenly isn't hungry, though he knows he hasn't eaten for days.

His eyes flutter shut, and he lets his head relax against the cold stone wall.

How about that, he thinks, for the last time. I'm warm...


	9. 9 of 198

9/198

"See that boy? He's the one sitting off to the side. Yes, that one. The one in the chair. His name is Trevor. Trevor Smith, or some such thing."

"He looks sad."

"He could have been independent."

"How? He's got no-"

"Shhh! No reason to mention it so loud. It's obvious what he's lacking."

"Still. I don't understand how he could have been independent."

"He was a mutant. Oh, don't give me that look. They're not all what you see on tv. He's a nice boy."

"They let him in the park? There are children around!"

"Quiet. Anyway, I said was."

"Once was, always is."

"As if you know what you're saying. He was never dangerous, after all. He could only do little things. Levitate pencils, turn door handles-"

"Pull triggers."

"Hush! He wasn't born like that, either. After his accident, his powers emerged. Like a gift from God."

"Death would have been kinder."

"May as well be dead, after all that odd business with the mutants. He'll never get to live on his own now."

"Who is that girl beside him?"

"His fianceé."

"Both so young! And she knows he's a gene-freak?"

"Not so loud! Of course she does! But they won't last."

"Stupidity of youth. Jumping into things."

"She'll end up a glorified babysitter, just you watch."

"But of course. And their children will be just a bunch of mutie freaks."

"Like their father was."

"Yes. Like he was."

Kalindi flattened her small, velveteen ears against her head, and not for the first time, wished it had been she who had lost her powers, instead of the boy in the wheelchair beside her.

"You'll be fine," Trevor whispered, knowing she could still hear. "And our children will be, too."

Kalindi's hand went to her stomach, almost unconsciously. She tried to force a smile.

"I believe you."

If one of the children she was carrying had a hint of her slit eyes or patterned ears, she might just die of heartbreak.

It was a pity, really. Trevor Smith could have been independent.


	10. 10 of 198: One of the Known

David Alleyne, formerly Prodigy. One of the Known.

* * *

10/198

David was a hero. He was an X-Men, he was a leader, he was a friend, and he was a lover.

Now: Watching her walk away, wondering why she kissed him (stupid, never liked him, oh no) wanting to know the answer, because he should. He should be able to know everything.

Then: Walking into a room was scary at first. His mind would be flooded with so much information, and he wasn't sure what he really knew, and what he only knew for now. What if one day he just forgot everything? If there were no people about, would he know anything at all?

Now: Feeling ideas trickle back, thinking he knew this answer (it was the most important) going to talk to the Three-In-One, because they would know. They could help him find this answer. The most important answer (why? Why would she do that?).

Then: Friends were hard. Emotions weren't something he was familiar with. No matter what, things didn't go right, and he just wanted to know (just wanted to help, with everything he's known). But now he knows, and he's terrified, because he doesn't do well with emotions, but they were in his not-quite-dream too.

Now: He wishes he could go back to that. It's a thought that doesn't sit right, so he tries to dismiss it. It doesn't leave. Just like the information, now. Stuck in his head forever. Just like her.

Then: The camp-out. The kiss. That was something he would remember (know) forever. The last of the good days (in comparison) before the hell that came after.

Now: He is looking. He is looking to find her. He isn't sure what he'll say, but he will figure it out. He's smart again.

Then: Information gone. Friends dead. Laurie shot, Josh crazy, bus blown to high heaven (that could have been him), blood and robots and guns and trying to protect someone he couldn't even help anymore. She almost died and he couldn't do anything. Julian had to save her. (damn him)

Now: He is passing Julian's room. He hears voices, and one is hers. (no)

Then: Through hell and back, death and life as his heart was ripped out of his chest and sewn back in again. The aftermath. The kiss. Now.

Now: He punches him, and leaves her behind. Noriko is not the question that matters anymore. He knows so much, and it is such a little question (what was it again?). The answer would be little, too. It doesn't matter.

Now David can be a hero again. An X-Men. Now: He walks away.

Noriko watches him, and whispers the answer. But he has no powers, so he doesn't know. He forgot the question.


End file.
